the bottom o' this chist. (_Miss GALLAGHER writhes in agony._) Why, what
makes you stand twisting there like an eel or an ape, child?--What, in the
name of the ould one, is it you're afeard on?--Was the chist full now of
love-letter scrawls from the grand signior or the pope himself, you could
not be more tinder of them.

_Miss G._ Tinder, sir!--to be sure, when it's my best bonnet I'm thinking
on, which you are mashing entirely.

_Christy._ Never fear, dear! I won't mash an atom of the bonnet, provided
always, you'll mash these apples for me, jewel. (_He takes apples out of
the chest._) And wasn't I lucky to find them in it? Oh, I knew I'd not
sarch this chist for nothing. See how they'll make an iligant apple-pie
for Mr. Gilbert now, who loves an iligant apple-pie above all things--your
iligant self always excipted, dear.

[_Miss GALLAGHER makes a slight curtsy, but motions the apples from her._

_Miss G._ Give the apples then to the girl, sir, and she'll make you the
pie, for I suppose she knows how.

_Christy._ And don't you, then, Florry?

_Miss G._ And how should I, sir?--You didn't send me to the dancing-school
of Ferrinafad to larn me to make apple-pies, I conclude.

_Christy._ Troth, Florry, 'twas not I sint you there, sorrow foot but your
mother; only she's in her grave, and it's bad to be talking ill of the dead
any way. But be that how it will, Mr. Gilbert must get the apple-pie, for
rasons of my own that need not be mintioned. So, Biddy! Biddy, girl! Biddy